The pure, the beautiful, the bright, That stirred our hearts in youth,The impulse to a wordless prayer, The dreams of love and truth,The longings after something lost, The spirits yearning cry,The strivings after better hopes, These things can never die.

Look when the clouds are blowing And all the winds are free:In fury of their going They fall upon the sea.But though the blast is frantic, And though the tempest raves,The deep immense Atlantic Is still beneath the waves.1